“I’m gonna take one of the ATVs and go fetch Coop. Anyone else shows up, turn ’em away. Except for Mike’s folks, they’re going to pick him up. His bike’s in my trunk.” Barney looked confused, and Crow elaborated. “He got run off the road by some dumb-ass trucker. Got banged up a bit.”
“I’m okay,” Mike said bravely.
Crow said, “Busted a rib or two and cracked his head on a rock. No, don’t look like that, he’s not going to die on you. His folks are going to take him over to the hospital for some X-rays.”
“That sucks,” he said, but Mike just shrugged. Carefully.
Crow said, “Look, Barney, there’s something serious going on. There are three assholes from Philly, bank robbers or something, who may be hiding out somewhere around here. The mayor wants everybody who belongs in town back in town, and all the kids at home.”
“What? That’s it?”
“That’s it, as far as I know.”
“Well, that’s not so much.”
“Yeah, but you know how Terry Wolfe is.”
“Yeah. He’s scared of his own shadow. I mean he never even comes out here, not even during the day.”
“Mr. Wolfe’s okay, Barney. He’s just a busy guy. He owns a lot of things. He’s always busy. That’s why he pays me to manage this joint.” There was just the faintest edge to Crow’s voice, and Barney caught it.
“Cool, man.”
“Anyway, if you see anyone you don’t know—any adults I mean—or if anything weird happens, call me on my cell.”
“Weird? Dude…this is a haunted hayride, you know.”
Crow smiled and winked at him and put the car into gear. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, nodding to the knife handle, “you ought to have that looked at.”
“Yeah,” said Barney, “this thing is killing me.”
2
The night was stretching forward into darkness, racing toward the dead hours that are forgotten by the light. All across Pine Deep, hearts were beginning to beat just a bit faster, minute-by-minute; lungs were gulping in air and gasping it out. In just a few hours the pitch and pulse of the night had changed, accelerated, jumped toward haste and action and frenzy.
There was the scent of blood on the dark winds, and the promise of much, much more; a perfume of destruction and pain carried to every part of the town, even to the darkest and most remote of places. The scent seemed to sink into the rich earth of the town, seeking out those who craved that aroma.
Deep in the darkness, someone became aware of that perfume; someone laid bare his senses and absorbed the scent of death, the energy of fear, the electricity of hate. He filled himself with the essence of hurt and dread, and he smiled. Teeth long caked with wormy soil, and lips withered to dry tautness peeled into a grin that betrayed the pernicious delight of the smiler. Above and around him the black tons of earth trembled as he laughed.
3
Ruger’s tiny automatic made lightning flashes and thunderstorm booms that crashed off the living room walls. Two black holes appeared high on the top panel of the door and cordite burned the air. Val screamed and lunged frantically for the doorknob, but Ruger sprang to his feet, knocking the rocking chair over, and with a ferocious sweep of his arm he sent her reeling back into her father’s arms. Guthrie fell back onto the couch with Val sitting down hard on top of him; he grunted in pain and the breath whooshed out of him for the second time. Connie screamed, too, but she made no move at Ruger: she just sat there on the couch covering her face with both hands and screaming shrilly through her fingers.
Ruger grabbed the knob and with a violent jerk whipped the door open, bringing his gun up high and steady as he did so. Outside, on the wide plank porch, Mark Guthrie stood in a frozen posture of absolute and uncomprehending shock: half crouched, stock-still, wide-eyed, and staring with dinner-plate eyes at the gun in the hand of a man he didn’t know. The bullets must have missed his face by inches and there were tiny splinters on his cheek, standing up like needles in a pincushion.
“Welcome home,” hissed Ruger and grabbed a handful of Mark’s shirt, pulled him close, and kneed him savagely in the crotch. Mark let loose with a high whistling shriek and folded in half at the waist. Connie and Val screamed, but Ruger ignored them and dragged the man into the house and flung him the length of the living room. Mark was a knotted cannonball of agony and he caromed off the wall and collapsed onto an occasional table that splintered under him. Mark, table, a vase of dried flowers, and some small picture frames collapsed onto the floor.
Val lunged up again and Ruger backhanded her down onto the couch; again she sprawled across her father’s lap and he caught her as she started to roll off onto the floor. Ruger turned to Val’s brother and kicked him viciously in the thigh and as Mark opened his mouth to scream, Ruger jammed the barrel of his pistol under his nose. “Just fucking lie there.” The scream died in his throat.
Connie, however, had started screaming as soon as Ruger had fired his gun and was still screaming, yelling, “Mark!” over and over again. Ruger spun and leveled the gun at her. “Shut your mouth, you stupid cunt!”
Like her husband’s, Connie’s screams turned to ice in her throat, but as if the desperate forces in her needed to escape in some way her body snapped into action and she hurled herself off the couch and flew like a bird to Mark, who was shaking his head stupidly, brushing at dried roses and baby’s breath and bits of broken crockery. Ruger stepped back and let her go, allowing her to flutter around her husband like a flight of nervous sparrows, touching and probing and kissing and stroking with darting nervous hands. All of it amused Ruger, who smiled. In as loud a voice as his mangled larynx could manage, he said, “Now, everyone just shut the fuck up!” He spaced the words out to give them maximum weight and effect.
The Guthrie house became as quiet as a tomb in less than one second, and Ruger actually sighed with pleasure. He looked at Val, who was gripping the armrest of the sofa with white-knuckled fingers. She had managed to disentangle herself from her father, who looked gray and sweaty. “Who’s the geek?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the young man. “Your brother-in-law?”
Val frowned in confusion. “What? Uh…no, he’s my brother. Mark.”
Ruger also looked confused. “Brother? Hey, I know this is the sticks and all, but I didn’t think brothers and sisters actually married out here.”
Val shook her head, not getting the point.
“Isn’t Donna Reed there your sister?”
“Huh? Oh! Oh, no,” said Val, understanding now, “she’s my sister-in-law. She’s married to Mark, my brother.”
“Ah,” Ruger said again.
By this time, Connie had helped Mark sit up and had brushed all the debris off him while constantly whispering, “He’s got a gun, he’s got a gun. Are you hurt? Don’t do anything, he’s got a gun.”
Mark looked up at Ruger, his face lined with pain and glistening with a patina of new sweat. “What the hell’s going on here?” Mark demanded, but with the pain the question carried no authority and came out as a wheeze.
“Are you okay?” Guthrie asked tightly.
“I…” Mark began, and then stopped, frowning deeply and looking quizzically at Ruger. “Who the hell are you? And…did you shoot at me?” he asked in a voice that betrayed his total amazement at such a possibility.
“No,” whispered Ruger. “If I had you’d been fucking well dead.” He smiled. “I shot at the door.”
Val saw the moment when Mark’s shock was overtaken by the first moment of clarity and then she saw the fear take hold. His eyes were wide and he stared at Ruger and at the gun.
Mark snapped his head around to where his father sprawled half on and half off the couch. He saw the blood on his father’s face and Mark’s own face went white. “Dad? What’s going on?”
“Be still, Mark…don’t do anything. Just do what he says.”
Ruger kicked the foot on one of Mark’s outstretched legs. “You’re Mr. Rotary Club, am I right?”
“I’m…who did you say?” He was not following any of this. “What the hell is—”
“It’s okay, Mark,” said Val. “Just listen.”
Staring at her and then back at his father, Mark said, “My God! Val? Dad? What happened to you? What happened to your faces? Did he do this?”
“They’re fine,” said Ruger. “Everybody’s fine.”
“Did you do that to them?”
Ruger shrugged as if to say these things sometimes happen.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell this is all about?” His words promised a demand that his tone of voice could not back up. It came out somewhere between a growl and a squeak, like a teenage boy whose voice was breaking.
“Sure,” Ruger said affably, “but first, why don’t you and your little wifey just go and join everyone else on the couch?”
Mark looked about to say more, but the black eye of the pistol stopped him, and the black eyes of the gunman withered his will. He let Connie help him up and they moved slowly, and very carefully, over to the couch, hissing occasionally at the pain in his groin. With the four of them it was a very tight fit. Val sat on the left end next to her father, and Connie did her best to try and vanish between the elder and younger Guthrie men. Mark examined his father’s face. “That’s a pretty bad cut, Dad.”
“Leave it be,” Guthrie murmured.
“But, Dad—”
“Leave it be.”
To Ruger, Mark said, “Who the hell are you? Some kind of tough guy? Beating up on women and old men.”
“Blow me,” Ruger said. He set the rocker back on its runners, turned it to face them, and sat down. “Now…the only reason I’m going to bother to recap tonight’s game is because if you understand the rules, then I probably won’t have to shoot you. Capiche?”